Just What I Do
by Moon Faery
Summary: A set of three short stories based on a song. Part 1 Outlaw Man is up. Au, Humor, Yaoi. 1x2x1 Discontinued.


Just What I Do: Outlaw Man  
Rating: PG  
Series: Gundam Wing  
Genre: Humor/AU  
Pairings: 1x2x1  
Spoilers: Solid NO.  
Warnings: AU; Yaoi; Historic Authenticity NOT Guaranteed (in fact, don't bother sticking this into the actualy world's timetime; it just won't work); Umm... Does this count as a Bad Guy Heero?  
By Moon Faery  
Archived: (evetually at) Moon Faery's Garden (http://www.geocities.com/moon_faerys_garden/); FFN (http://www.fanfiction.net); Kiss of Death [my new site!] (http://www.angelfire.com/gundam/kissofdeath/); anywhere else that asks nicely.  
  
Disclaimer: A statement created solely to save one's ass from becoming lawn for the proverbial legal mower. I do not own Gundam Wing or the song Just What I Do, nor does anyone I know own them. Trick Pony is responsible for the song, and Sunrise/Sotsu owns GW. However, this story line and plot are MINE. (Holds fic close to her.) Grrrr....  
  
Author Notes: This is NOT a series in any real sense of the word; just a group of short-shorts that are based on the same song.   
***  
  
A dusty bandana hid the man's face as he strutted down the center the dirty street except for his strikingly blue eyes, which focused with frightening intensity on the path before him. He wasn't even paying attention to the startled bystanders on the wooden sidewalks beside him. Women picked up their skirts and cowered behind whatever man happened to be handy as he passed by. The men mostly just stuck their chests out and pretended not to be frightened of the stranger, save those smart few who found buildings and watering troughs to hide behind.  
  
"They say he kills people just by looking at them," an elderly woman whispered to her husband, peeking over his shoulder wistfully.  
  
"He don't look so tough!" someone boasted loudly from within the annonomity of a large group of young men.  
  
"There's goin' ta be trouble!" a fat, bearded old man nearly yelled from the porch of the saloon. A scantily-clad girl nearby sighed and snapped her fan open, fanning her generous bossom.  
  
The man just continued walking past, not even sparing the watchers a glance. His black duster swept out behind him in a stray breeze, lifting above the dust of the street to show a pair of slender legs clad in rough chaps. It also revealed a pair of six-shooters, which glinted in the bright golden desert sunlight. After that, the silence was total.  
  
His spurs clinked as he stepped into the bank. As soon as the door closed behind him, someone pelted across town to warn the sheriff that "He" was back.  
  
Inside the bank, all activity had ceased. It was as if everyone had turned to stone at his appearance. He didn't even bother to draw his weapons. Instead, he leaned back against the door and crossed his arms, silently daring anyone to try and stop him. No one answered the challenge.  
  
"He-hello, sir," the thin man behind the counter finally said. He adjusted his visor and smiled in a shaky approximation of welcome. "The usual, sir?"  
  
The eyes above the bandanna glinted mischievously as he shook his head.  
  
"N-no, sir?" The clerk's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "The-then w-what..?"  
  
The voice that answered was slightly nasal, with a deep timbre that sent pleasurable chills down the spines of the women in the room. "The Maxwell Ranch was taken last week by your mayor in leiu of taxes. I believe that you have the deed for it?" he asked softly. His bandanna twitched as though he was smiling behind the cloth. "That will do for now."  
  
"I-immediately, sir!" The clerk disappeared from behind the counter. He reappeared seconds later, a piece of paper in his hand. It was slid across to the man in the black duster, who strode over and picked it up.  
  
"The ownership hasn't been transfered yet?" he asked quietly, tipping back his black ten gallon hat to cast a studying gaze at the banker. A lock of dark brown hair fell out from under the hat, the tip curling around the side of his nose. It made the glare that much more terrifying.  
  
"N-no, S-s-ssir. I- I cou-could-"  
  
The bank robber shook his head. "It's fine." Again the bandana moved slightly. "Thank you. I'll be back later." Folding the deed and placing it carefulling in a small leather pouch, he turned on one bootheel and walked calmly out into the broad daylight.  
  
"Hold it!" Someone yelled. He turned uninterested eyes on a tall blonde man with a tin star on his dull brown shirt. "You aren't getting out of this one, Jesse James!"  
  
The man called Jesse James raised an eyebrow. "I think I already did, Zechs," he commented. Before the sheriff could even blink, Jesse had whipped out his gun and was shooting. His bullet whizzed under the nose of the blood bay stallion directly behind Zechs. The horse, understandably, panicked, and reared, screaming. One of it's flailing hooves caught the sheriff in the shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. Other horses began to break away from their hitching posts, reacting to the noise and confusion. A huge cloud of dust blinded the townspeople as the animals took off for parts unknown in a flash of leather and hooves.  
  
When the dust cleared and visibility returned, Jesse James had vanished.  
***  
  
Heero rode up to the small farmhouse as dusk began to darken the small valley, grinning broadly. His brand new blood bay stallion snorted and pranced sideways as a rabbit scurried out from a bush.  
  
"Stop that," he ordered sternly. "I already appologized."  
  
The stallion turned his head to pierce his rider with an unforgiving stare. Heero just slapped his shoulder gently and swung off. "Fine, I'll get you a windfall. Will that do?"  
  
The horse looked like he was considering the offer, but eventually good humor returned to his black eyes and he butted Heero's chest affectionately.  
  
"Heero!" someone yelled from the porch. "You're back!" A young man with vividly colored blue-violet eyes charged at him, braid whipping in the self-made wind. He slid to a stop the unfamiliar horse registered. "Where did he come from?" Duo asked, sticking a hand out for the stallion to sniff. It was returned to him with green slobber coating it, since the horse had taken the opportunity to lick the salt off his palm.  
  
"The town was kind enough to give him to me," Heero answered, scratching under the smooth black mane. "He's a gift to appologize for the mistake the mayor made."  
  
Duo's eyes brightened. "You did it?" it asked, amazed. "You really did it?"  
  
Blue eyes glinted as Heero grinned and opened the front of his black duster. He pulled the deed out and waved it under his lover's nose. "It's all yours, Duo."  
  
Enthusiastic lips were suddenly on his own, kissing him deeply. Heero returned it as best as he could, pulling the other man up against him.  
  
Eventaully Duo pulled away and cuddled into Heero's chest, snuggling his way under the taller man's chin. "I don't know how you do things like this, but you haven't let me down yet," he sighed happily. "This more than makes up for loosing that grey mare."  
  
Heero's eyes brightened considerably. "Does this mean that I don't have to sleep on the floor anymore?" he asked eagerly, nibbling a trail down Duo's neck.  
  
"Why don't we... talk about that?" Duo asked huskily, grinding his hips into Heero's.  
  
The stallion snorted. He hated being forgotten, and at the rate his new owners were moving, it looked like he was never going to get that windfall he'd been promised.  
***OWARI***  
  
"Just What I Do" by Trick Pony  
Lyrics for this part:  
  
Jesse James was an outlaw man, he was always breakin' the law  
Six-guns firin' from both his hands, the fastest you ever saw  
Did he do it for the money, or was it for the fame?  
Finally somebody asked him "Jesse why you wanna rob them trains?"  
And Jesse said  
  
It's just what I do when I can't get no lovin'  
Just what I do when I can't get no loving  
I'm the meanest hombre you ever saw  
'Cause lately I ain't gettin' no loving at all 


End file.
